


I Cut Myself Shaving

by Space_gays_that_arent_in_space



Series: Testosterone [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - No Sburb/Sgrub Sessions, Angst and Porn, Asphyxiation, Childhood Trauma, Cunnilingus, Dirk Strider and Dave's Bro Aren't the Same Person, Drunk Sex, Existential Angst, Existential Crisis, Hangover, Human Karkat Vantas, Humanstuck, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Karkat Swearing, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Masturbation, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, POV Dave Strider, Panic Attacks, Please Set My Boy Dave Free All I Do Is Hurt Him, Premature Ejaculation, Recreational Drug Use, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, Stream of Consciousness, Suicidal Thoughts, Top Dave, Trans Karkat Vantas, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:15:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27573683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Space_gays_that_arent_in_space/pseuds/Space_gays_that_arent_in_space
Summary: There’s a certain something that comes with realizing the frivolousness of time beneath the sweltering heat of the Texas sun that makes a guy want to take a swan dive off his roof like he’s a professional fucking diver getting ready to take home the gold for the US in the Olympics. There’s a certain something about thinking about how time isn’t really worth anything, how you aren’t worth anything, that makes a guy wonder if anything he does is even worth thinking about. You aren’t that guy though, of course not.
Relationships: Dave Strider/Karkat Vantas
Series: Testosterone [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2019008
Comments: 14
Kudos: 72





	I Cut Myself Shaving

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in a stream of consciousness and I really hope that you all like this. It is 3am, I am so tired. Thank you for reading.

There’s a certain something that comes with realizing the frivolousness of time beneath the sweltering heat of the Texas sun that makes a guy want to take a swan dive off his roof like he’s a professional fucking diver getting ready to take home the gold for the US in the Olympics. There’s a certain something about thinking about how time isn’t really worth anything, how you aren’t worth anything, that makes a guy wonder if anything he does is even worth thinking about. You aren’t that guy though, of course not. 

You’re the guy staring up at the sun, wondering if your light sensitivity will make you blind if you stare for long enough beneath your shades. Terezi might know, she apparently went blind because of something similar, or maybe it was just something like cataracts. You actually don’t know. The sky looks like something fake, like the fucking bathwater in a dream. If the sky is bathwater and the clouds are bubbles then what the fuck is the sun? The person bathing? Maybe. 

You drag a hand across your face. You’re ungodly so sweaty. You‘re sweaty enough to be the sun in its little sky bath, slumped into the hot water and bubbles that surround you while the world just goes on around you. Life has felt like that a lot recently, just going on around you rather than you actually being there for any of it. It’s been like this for months, ever since you got your first bit of shitty little facial hair. Bro has a rule, no facial hair until you can grow a full beard. It’s funny almost, since Bro can grow a beard about as well as a fucking slab of drywall, same for Dirk, same for year. Strider Men aren’t allowed to have patchy facial hair. Shit like that is for nerds, of course. 

You had whiskers growing, whiskers you were proud of, even if they couldn’t produce a real beard, and it was time to shave because of them. You remember it because it was one of the only cool days, a day where you all had the AC off and the windows open, Dirk even went out for a walk, and Bro was off buying more swords for himself, so you were dead alone. You remember staring at yourself in the mirror, looking at the way that you were growing into the coolest fucking guy ever, the way that the bruise on your cheekbone seemed to finally heal up, the way that your hair was already getting longer despite having just cut it. So many things to look at, but you had to focus on the little wisps of blond that were sitting right on your chin, so you took a razor to it all. 

You cut yourself like a dumbass. 

It stung like a bitch, hurt your ego more though, thankfully no one was there to dare speak a word. Well, no one except Bro’s cameras. They didn’t count though, they never counted when you dispensed of them so easily with your sick fucking skillz. Even still, you cut yourself shaving twice, and there was something in watching the blood bead up to your skin and drip into your sink that flipped a switch inside of you. It was like you had an epiphany, well, not like, you _did_ have an epiphany. You can remember enough of Dirk’s pubescent period, specifically when he got all pimply and whiskery, to remember him always having little pieces of tissue pressed on his face, covering up all his little cuts. You remember what Bro used to say to him whenever he’d asked for help, the cardinal sin within the Strider Man Handbook you’d been raised on. 

”If you can’t shave your own fucking face then how are you supposed to survive the real world, Dirk?” 

You remember Dirk always being up on the roof when he got all pimply and whiskery. 

Bro raised you on Strider Rules, and Strider Rules are not things that lead to a man being able to really take care of himself. No, it’s rules on coolness, rules on how to be the smartest guy in the room, rules on how to make everyone want to be you because you’re just that fucking awesome. You follow those Strider Rules to a T because there’s no other way to live, there never has been, there never will be. 

You sit up, stop thinking about how your face stung for a few days, how Bro would look at you with your vaseline on your face and little cuts that matched perfectly with your pimples. You think about the way that razor is sitting in the bathroom, you think of breaking it apart so you can use the blade, but if you really wanted to use something really sharp then you’d just get one of the many katanas Bro gave you. You check your watch, it’s 4pm. Roxy is having her birthday party at 10, Dirk is supposed to drive you. You made her a mix for her birthday, the thing is like a fucking housefire-no, a forest fire. It’s so fucking good that you just know she’s gonna wanna listen to it till she’s an old woman and even then she’s just gonna pass it on to her granddaughter or whatever so that she can enjoy how sick your tunes are. You put all of this work in ironically, of course. It’s not like her birthday is a big deal even, it’s not, it’s like the least big deal ever, you’re just doing this because her face when she hears how good your music is will be funny, or something like that. 

It’s getting too hot, your brain is getting fried. Your metaphors are getting shittier by the second and you don’t do shit metaphors. What you do instead is head back down from the roof and to your apartment. It’s time for your favorite part of the day anyway, reading the comments on Bro’s videos. 

You’ve been doing this since you were 14, since you were first made to help him out with all his videos online. It had been sick at first, after all, for all the shit Bro did, he was the coolest guy you knew. He mostly had you taking photos of them, but he had you get involved in his weird smuppet snuff films. You were in charge of the damage, him with the filming, Dirk would make himself scarce when Bro had you working with him, you remember thinking he was jealous. You’d fuck up these puppets worse than someone fucking up a bathroom after a healthy diet of Taco Bell and cheap beer. Then, Bro would post it all online. He never exactly gave you payment, instead he just cut you a little more slack, and you were appreciative. 

Then you watched the videos, and you saw all the comments the guys watching them made about you. They were creepy-horrifying-weird-funny. Yeah, they were funny, and that was what you stuck with. They were funny comments from creeps on the internet that were interested in weird smuppet snuff and you just so happened to be the one they were talking about. 

You were the one you wanted to hunt down and decapitate. 

The one they wanted to keep in a cage like a little pet. 

The one that they wanted to taste. 

Bro only had you work on a few videos, he needed the help because he had suddenly got an increase in demand for content and he needed an extra set of hands. You only worked for Bro for four months, and yet there are still new comments to read now, years later. There are some talking about your body, others about the looks on your face, others are just about the puppet, what the focus should be really. They’re all stupid. You’re stupid. It’s all so stupid and nothing is real and neither are you and really why are you even looking at this anymore when it’s so boring and it’s all the same fucked up shit about guys who live in their moms’ basements wanting to fuck some kid. Some kid being you, of course, but are you even really you? You don’t feel like you, you feel like some guy, just walking around in your skin. 

You scroll through more comments anyway, rewatch the videos, look at yourself back then. It wasn’t that long ago, not really, it’s just you cutting the puppet open, throwing it’s filling everywhere, breaking the nose, letting this stupid thing get what it deserves because it’s creepy as shit and has been ever since the first time John pointed it out to you. Dirk gets weirded out when he catches you watching the videos, like he knows something you don’t about the why-like this isn’t just something you’re doing for the sake of irony and not at all because the only time you feel anything is when this primal sort of need to escape strikes you while reading these comments. 

PuppetFckr984324 wants to fuck your mouth. 

ToddOliver_32 thinks your small hands would look great around him. 

You feel fucking nauseous. 

Before you know it, you’ve spent an hour and a half looking at the comments on the videos and you feel your skin crawling. You’re sweatier than before, even with the AC going. Your clothes are sticking to you in all the worst places, your skin is sticking to you in all the worst places. You want to scream. Instead, you close the tab and get up. Too much time has passed, somehow. You might as well take this as your chance to shower. There’s no one in the bathroom when you check, and make sure to cover all of Bro’s puppets with towels, just in case. You glance at yourself in the mirror, today is a bad hair day, it’s floppy and dead and covered in sweat, you’re breaking out on your cheeks and your lips look like they’re about to crack with how chapped they are. Damn. You’ll make up for it after your shower, make sure that you look worthy of the Strider name when you head out for the night. 

You turn on the shower, waiting for the water to be lukewarm enough for you to step into rather than blasting out like ice. You take off your shades and put them on the sink, then pull off your clothes. You won’t look at yourself without your shades on, so you have to turn your back on the mirror. You used to just shower with the lights off, you only stopped because one time Bro walked in to piss and he didn’t have any clue you were in there. Sucked ass. Sucked more ass than a fucking ass vacuum whose job it is to suck assholes till they’re clean. 

Your shower quickly devolves into you sitting on the floor, letting the water cool you off and thinking. You think about tonight, think about how Karkat is supposed to be there, think about how you want tonight to be the night that you make a move on him. You know he’s interested, even outside of your promised Strider Charms, you’ve seen the way he looks at you, the way that he reacts to you flirting with him. He’s always so flustered, it’s cute. You’re watching the water swirl down the drain, watching how it just slips away, and you decide that tonight you’ll ask Karkat on a proper date, not like Bro will give a shit if you’re out more often than usual. Maybe your first date will be going to see some romcom, you know that he likes those, or maybe you can hit the old record store across town and find some new sounds for your mixes. You press your head against the tile and squeeze your eyes shut tight, you try to imagine going on a date with Karkat. A real date, one where you hold hands and share ice cream and all that other gay shit. Yeah, maybe it’s not the most Strider thing to do, dating a guy, but maybe things will go well if you do. Maybe you and Karkles could be something sweet. Maybe when you kiss you’ll feel whole instead of empty, maybe things with him will stop making you feel so detached from it all. 

It won’t though, and you know that it won’t. 

Still doesn’t hurt to dream though. 

You should get up, so you do. You push yourself off of the floor of your shower and drench yourself in Dirk’s fancy shampoo. You didn’t get why he bought it at the time, three in one does the job just fine, you still sort of don’t, and yet you’re using his shit. You think about how fluffy Dirk’s hair is, fluffy hair is something Vantass would like, probably. You scrub your hair until it’s nothing but a slicked up mess of bubbles. You remember back when you used to play with your hair while it was shampooed, stupid little haircuts for the fuck of it all, now you try to get showers over as soon as you can. Lukewarm water and shampoo, lukewarm water and soap, lukewarm water and another existential crisis that makes you consider throwing yourself off the roof of your apartment, lukewarm water in the sun’s bath, lukewarm water that you think should-would-could drown you if you tried enough.. 

You step out, finally done with the nightmare that it is to be trapped with your own thoughts while dead alone, but isn’t it always like this? Smothering. You put your shades back on fast as you can, grateful that you only have to see your face in your periphery before you get that lovely tint back over everything. The run to your room is always a test of agility, whether Bro is home or not. Head down, always, doesn’t matter if you can’t see what’s ahead so long as you can see the floor. You wear your towel so that your junk can’t even be seen beneath it, just in case. There are smuppets all over the floor, there always are when work has been going well for Bro. That’s the problem though, when there are so many it’s harder to tell which ones have cameras and which don’t, so you’ve just gotta walk around like all of them do. It’s simpler that way. Besides, it’s a test of agility, sort of. You rush to your room and slam the door behind you. Safe. Point 1,285 for Strider, Creepy Ass Puppets none. You let out a sigh and check the time, 6. 4 hours till you’ve gotta go, that’s great. Dirk is gonna be on your ass if you don’t get there on time, but you’ve got so much time, too much time even. All of this time that ought to be killed like a fucking dragon. All of this time that you’ve just gotta deal with because you’re great at doing things in a timely fashion and thus could never be late. Your eyes drift to your closet, right where your favorite belt is. You have plenty of time, tons of time, a suffocating, choking amount of time, so why not indulge yourself? 

You and the belt make eye contact, you imagine it around your neck, making that constant feeling of suffocation real, squeezing around your throat tighter than anything while your hand is wrapped around your dick. It’s gross, _you’re_ gross. You’re gross for wanting it as badly as you do, gross for getting turned on imagining it. Gross as fuck. Grosser than the fucking garbage that Bro refuses to take out in his room. Grosser than fucking Oscar the Grouch which is really saying something since that asshole literally lives in the trash. You glare at the belt like it’s the one calling you gross and feel insane for it. What the hell is wrong with you man, this is not Cool Guy behavior in the slightest. This is the lamest display of behavior you could ever exhibit for anyone and frankly you’re embarrassed for yourself. What happened to Dave Strider, coolest kid ever? You used to just be sick sword skillz, admiration for your Bro, and awesome mixes, and now you’re some melting pot of anxiety and existential crises. You feel like yelling, you wanna yell so fucking bad man. You don’t though, instead you lock your door, grab the belt, and find your phone in the layers of your bed. 

It’s as embarrassing as it feels good, and it all goes by in a blur. The belt is perfect around your neck, and the porn you’ve got on isn’t important at all because fuck the feeling of not being able to breath is way more important. Your dick is rock solid, shit could cut diamonds, and here you are with your hand wrapped around yourself furiously jerking until your orgasm rushes through you and suddenly you’re stuck listening to moaning from two people who barely did anything but rush your half chub into a full fucking boner. You’d be embarrassed by how quick you came had this been anything more than an experiment, but it wasn’t. It was just a test of something, and that test had enough results for you to now wonder if this was yet another thing to be ashamed of. You lay like that for a long time, just staring up at your ceiling covered in old record cases. 

You don’t remember falling asleep when you wake up, but you know that you did because Dirk is banging on your door telling you to get up before the two of you are late. Fuck. 

You rush to get dressed, throwing on whatever appears to you first, all save for your belt. You and that belt have too different a relationship now. You know it, the belt knows it. You two have to have a long talk when you get back, defining your new relationship and all that, but all of that drama is for later. Maybe the belt will say it doesn’t want something serious with you, then it’ll be all tears and asking to know how you have to change. Then the belt will be all “Dave it isn’t about you changing, we just aren’t compatible. I’m sorry.” Then the belt walks away from the park bench you two are sitting on and you’re left to deal with the unrequited feelings of your long lost lover. Karkat. The belt could easily become Karkat. Both in the choking kink that you’ve suddenly got and the rejection. You could very well be rejected by him, have him tell you he’s not interested even though everything he’s done and said around you has told you the exact opposite. You feel a chill run up your back. That isn’t apart of this dramatic narrative between you and your old belt. Karkat won’t even _know_ about that because you don’t plan on letting him know about any of it. No, Karkat will not be finding out about your lovely little masochistic episode with your belt earlier because it doesn’t matter to the context of the two of you going out. Dirk bangs on your door again and you flinch, fuck, how long did you spend just sitting here thinking to yourself? 

”Five minutes, hurry up and finish in there so we can leave. We’re late as is.” 

You sigh and put on a belt, then grab the pink wrapped CD case on your DJ station. The car ride with Dirk is quiet, peaceful. For the first time today you feel like you can breathe properly, and God does it feel good. It’s so fucking good. Roxy’s parties are always the best, even before you get there, you know it’ll all be the best. You bite back a grin and glance at Dirk out of the corner of your eye. He’s excited too, even if he won’t admit it. 

Roxy greets you both with a hug and a kiss, she's already drunk. That’s fine though, she’s happy, laughing. Dirk is already stuck to her side while looking for Jake. He’s had a crush on him for fucking ever. It’d be funny if you weren’t in the exact same boat, y’know, save for the fact that Karkat isn’t a red blooded narcissist manly man, or something. You’ve only ever heard Jake talk once but he seems boring, and kind of like a shithead, but he makes Dirk happy, and that’s all you can ask. Roxy’s house is huge, huge to the point where it seems a little stupid since only three people are living there, but it always has sick shit to look at. Like the view, the view there is so beautiful that it almost makes a cool guy want to shed a tear, almost. Said cool guy doesn’t shed a tear though, not one. Instead he gets himself a drink from the kitchen. Rose is sitting on the counter, handing out drinks like some sort of alcohol fairy. 

”Sup,” 

”Hello Dave, looking for Karkat I presume?” 

”You know Rose, what if I wasn’t looking for Karkles. What if I just wanted to come hang out in here with you and get shitfaced? What if Karcrab wasn’t even on my mind? You sure sound like an asshole then. Don’t you Rose?” 

Rose rolls her eyes at you and hands you a drink. 

”You know Dave, the amount that you’re talking isn’t going to cover up the fact that I know you’ve been looking for him since you got here. Besides, even if you _did_ actually want to hang out with me tonight, I’m busy. Kanaya is here and we’re on a date.” 

She gets giddy when she finishes, like she can’t believe they’re on a date when it’s the most believable thing you’ve ever heard in your life. Maybe even more believable than the fact that you are looking for Karkat out of the corner of your eye while you talk to Rose about not looking for him. You take the drink and drain half of it. It tastes like shit and makes your stomach burn. 

”If that’s the case, then I guess I have to hang out with KK Slider” 

”I suppose you do. He’s in the basement, by the way.” She hands you a fancy old bottle of whiskey before she sends on your way. 

You nod, and make your way down into the creepy ass Lalonde basement. Every time you go down there you feel cold, like there’s a ghost or something. Maybe it’s because that’s where Rose’s cat died when you guys were little, or maybe it’s just because it’s got too many dark corners. You spot him easily, sat on the tiny loveseat while people amble and chat around him. He looks pretty in the light, it’s pink for Roxy, of course. The whole house is lit up in pink light and Karkat looks lovely in it. You hate how mushy he makes you inside. It’s ridiculous, like you’re suddenly just some sort of hyper-romantic sap who writes poems and love songs all about your gay lover Karkat. It’s all so stupid. Even still, you walk over to him and plop down on the couch. 

”Hey Karkles, party treating you okay?” You’re already opening up the bottle and taking a swig. 

”Despite the ungodly amount of drunk people, and the fact that my friends are now apart of that group of said drunks, yes. At least, I was before you came over here to bother me with whatever inane excuse of conversation you’re trying to offer me with small talk.” You can tell he doesn’t mean it in the slightest because he’s turned to face you, he’s even got that tiny grin he gets when you say something that really tickles him. 

You haven’t said shit. Things are gonna go well. 

”Ouch, that one kind of hurt, Karkitty. Here I thought we were best bros.” You cover your heart with your hand and pout at him, he snorts. 

”Shut the fuck up Strider” 

”Here I thought you might want some of what I have to offer for you” 

”What, your shitty alcohol so I can join the ranks of the slurring, pan saturated fools?” 

”Well, yeah” You wiggle the bottle in front of him and he sighs. 

The way Karkat refuses to have fun is funny sometimes. You’ve never met someone who makes it a point to have a bad time, like he gets his fun out of his own suffering. Maybe he does, maybe he’s a masochist and he gets off when everyone else gets to enjoy themselves and he doesn’t, or maybe he just enjoys being made to have fun because that means someone cares that he’s happy. Karkat is staring at you now, waiting for you to give him the bottle, like his watered down beer doesn’t even matter anymore. It doesn’t really, nothing does. Nothing in the world matters and suddenly you feel that weird empty feeling all over again. Forty whole minutes of freedom, wow, good on you Strider. You hand the bottle to him, trying to ignore the way your stomach is lurching. You suddenly wish you were at home, but you aren’t. Nope, you’re right here next to your crush, your best bud, your favorite guy to waste time with, and you feel like puking, like all the stress is about to make you implode. The moment that the bottle gets handed back to you, you chug it, you gulp as much as you can before the burning gets to be too much and you feel like gagging because the taste is just that fucking terrible. Karkat doesn’t look surprised, it’s not like you don’t do this at every party you guys end up at together. Dave is cool until suddenly he decides to start doing body shots, or draining about 5 White Claws in 3 minutes on a challenge from whoever will tell him to do it, or gulping down what should have been about six whiskey shots in one go out of nowhere. 

Karkat doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t give back the bottle either. You don’t care though, not when you can already feel yourself loosening up. Karkat is more careful, takes his time, and it isn’t long until you start talking. 

You tell him about the mixes you’re working on. Tell him about how absolutely volcanic eruption in the driest forest you’ve ever seen fire it’s gonna be. You have all the tracks picked out already too, some of which from Roxy’s birthday mix. He laughs, whether it’s with you or at you you aren’t sure of. It doesn’t really matter though, it can’t when he’s having fun. You keep talking like that, long rambling monologues about your music with occasional snark interjections from him. His drinking is all a slow stream, whiskey pouring into him until suddenly he’s got the bottle half gone rather than a third of the way. He’s gonna end up puking by the end of the night, the thought makes you laugh. Then, suddenly, Karkat is laughing with you, all loud and nasally. It’s great. You two are just sitting there together, laughing, enjoying yourself. You grip on to the enjoyment close and tight, like it’ll go somewhere if you don’t. You know that it will. It always does. If you don’t hold on to your happiness then it’ll be stolen. 

You look at Karkat then, suddenly. He’s still laughing, face twisted up and a grin on his face. He’s so pretty, it’s ridiculous. It’s unfair even. God, he’s so fucking gorgeous. You just want to kiss him. 

You don’t though, instead, you take his hand in yours and squeeze it tight. Karkat pauses then and looks at you. He’s confused. Why wouldn’t he be? Things were cool and now you’re being all weird and gay. Fuck. He licks his lips, you’re sure that if you got any closer you’d be able to smell the whiskey on his lips, honestly, you’re sure he can smell it on yours. You squeeze his hand a little bit tighter. You want to ask him if he ever feels like this, like time is crushing him to death and that if he doesn’t do anything then he may just end up dying from it. Like his internal clock is moving too fast with his mind and with his body and he feels like he’s overheating. You want to know you aren’t alone, you want to know that time haunts everyone like this, you want to. You want to. You want to. You want to. You want to. 

”Hey Karks,” 

”What?” 

”You wanna go out sometime?” 

”What?” 

”like on a date, full scale wine and dine type shit, just like your movies. It’s cool if you don’t, but y’know, can’t miss unless you take a shot.” You shrug like this isn’t the biggest deal of your life-like you don’t hate yourself for not asking what you really wanted to. 

Karkat flusters-sputters over his words like he can’t quite remember how to work his tongue in his mouth, but he ends up nodding. 

You grin at him, something bright sparking in your chest. You’re happy, you’re so fucking happy, you’re so happy that you don’t even think about it before you lean in to kiss him, hard and heavy. Of course, there are other things you could be sad about, things you could hate because you’re a fool for not asking what you really wanted to, but you have this. The promise of a date and a good night out with your maybe favorite person. Time loosens it’s ridiculous grip on you, stops choking you just for a second. 

You wonder if maybe your stupid dream about Karkat making the world less shitty is a reality that’s on the horizon for you. If you’re allowed a happily ever after right now with him. He’s great, your coolest fucking bro, the guy who means more than mixes to you. 

Karkat kisses you back, hands gripping on the sides of your face so tight you have to wonder if he’s never been kissed before. It wouldn’t be surprising if he hadn’t, Karkat gives off total kissing virgin vibes. There’s something about the thought of popping his mouth cherry that makes you giddy, or maybe it’s all the alcohol in your system, or maybe it’s the fact that you’re finally living in a moment without time breathing down your neck, or maybe it’s all of it. Maybe there’s something about this moment, in all its energy, that just pushes you over the edge. You press closer against him, humming into his mouth. He’s a quick learner, soon he’s got his leg between yours and you’re on top of each other. 

People are looking at you now, you’re practically dry humping right in public. Karkat knows well as you do. He’s got that nervous look on his face that shows whenever someone catches you two too close to each other when you’re talking. Guess that they’ll think something’s up now that they’ve seen the two of you playing tonsil hockey right on the basement loveseat, huh. All too suddenly, he’s grabbing you, pulling you up off the couch. Taking you somewhere. Somewhere attached to the basement that feels like it goes on and on and on for fucking ever. The mausoleum. Holy fucking shit you’re in the mausoleum, holy fucking shit he’s probably going to let you fuck him in the mausoleum. That’s all you can think of as he pulls you right back on top of him, kissing you like you’re the key to life. You’re pressing up against him, well, Little Dave is. Little Dave is having a party right up against him while you get him up against the wall. His hands are in your hair, pulling, gripping tight at the root like he’s about to fucking scalp you. You don’t think you’d mind. The mental image of Karkat with two fistfulls of your hair and the way the sting seems to make you hornier just makes you press up against him. 

You pull away from him for a second and just look at him. Well, sort of look at him. The light in here is horrible and with your shades on you’re practically blind as a bat. You want to say something poetic, sexy, something worthy of the Strider name. All you come out with is, 

”Dude you’re so fucking hot.” 

You want to punch yourself in the face for it. You sound like some sort of frat bro, like the kind of guy who does this all the time (which you totally do because you’ve got mad hoes), but shit you don’t want Karkat to know that. If he knew that then how would he know that this fuck sesh you two are about to use to totally rock his world is special? Karkat takes both his hands and claps them against your cheeks. It stings like a bitch and you can just barely make out his scowl. 

”Dave, if you plan on going out on one of your tedious monologues that is entirely you speaking in tongues for yourself while I have to guess what is going through your head at any given moment then please, go right on ahead, but I’ll be in the basement, sitting there, thinking about what a fucking imbecile both I am and you are for even considering letting you near enough to press your so called dick against me” He sounds pretty pissed with you, and you can tell based off of said pissedness that he really is giving you an ultimatum here. Go big or go home Strider, it’s up to you. 

You kiss him all over again, hard and rough. You kiss him like you want him to know how bad you want him and boy do you want him. You want him like a stoner wants his favorite munchie, you’re totally ready to walk your ass to 7/11 and find yourself a Vantass bar to cut up and melt on to some delicious KK Slider chips to eat while watching some random infomercial on TV. 

He lets out a sound, so wanton and heavy that it rushes right back to your dick who seems more glad than ever to show off his leading role between you guys. You want to do so much, put your mouth everywhere that you can, kiss him, fuck him in any position you’ve ever seen in porn. You want so much, but you more than anything you want to be in him. He hooks a leg around you and pulls you close, he’s so hot. He feels like he could probably burn you alive if he wanted, and you think he could, honest to god if he wanted he’d do it. There’s something hot about that thought. There’s something hot about all of the thoughts you have when Karkat is kissing you. You pull away again, just barely able to when he’s biting and sucking on your bottom lip like it’s some sort of treat. It’s dark, so dark you can barely see the whites of his eyes even though you’re nose to nose with him. Even still, you guys communicate silently, and suddenly you’re both ripping off your pants like they’ve done something to offend you. 

You move fast together, it’s jarring, suddenly his leg is back around you and the heel of his foot is digging into your ass. When you push inside of him he shudders and you feel like you’ve seen heaven. 

God he really is just that hot all over. It’s so much, too much, you feel like you could bust already but you know that you can’t because what kind of Strider Man let’s him bust barely a minute in to fucking his friend. None that’s who. You will not be the first Strider to bust in under a minute, fast and skillful as you are with everything else. Karkat’s arms grip the back of your t-shirt and you stand like that, Hips flush to his while you hold his thigh and keep him pressed against the wall. You wish you could see his face better, wish you could see the way it twists up when you thrust into him. Fuck. It’s like silk, hot wet silk that you want to cum all over. 

The noises he makes are quiet, muffled by his own hand and self preservation instinct, like he’ll die or something if you hear him moan, though it’s not like you don’t feel the exact same fucking way. You don’t really make any sounds save for the little sighs and grunts you can’t help but let out because fuck he’s so tight around you. You kiss him again, hard and messy. The whiskey on his breath is somehow even more prominent, or maybe it’s just that you’ve played so much tonsil hockey that your stick and his have become one in the same. His hands dig into your back, the fabric of your shirt getting even more bunched up than before and you finally pull out just enough to thrust back in properly. It’s so good, so so so so so good. So fucking good oh god you might actually nut here and now. 

You grab your dick as fast as you can and end up cumming right into your hand. The shame you feel is immeasurable. A minute and a half, maybe. Then, you came right in your fucking hand. 

Karkat is panting and staring at you. You owe him something, you know you do, he knows you do, there’s nothing you can do except get down on your knees. You press a kiss to his thigh and push your hair out of your face with your shades, You’re eye to eye with it now, the monster that squeezed so tight around you that you had no choice outside of cumming like some sort of newbie, which you totally were not. (You were, and you’d rather die than have Karkat find that out). 

You hitch his knee over your shoulder and dive right in tongue first. You try to fuck him like your dick couldn’t, making sure to pay extra attention to the spots that make his thighs flex. You imagine doing this on a bed, a bed where you don’t have to make sure you’re still holding him up, especially when you add in your fingers. You decided on it randomly, like you suddenly remembered that your fingers can be just as phallic as your tongue, and boy does it change things. Suddenly, Karkat is letting out genuine moans, muffled by his hand of course, it’s hot. Hot enough to where you wish more than anything that you could get it up and try again. He’s hot still, maybe even hotter as he leaks all over your face. You’re covered in your own spit and his fluids, you know you are, and the more he clenches around you the surer you become of yourself. Just because you busted in a minute in a half doesn’t mean you can’t satisfy him just the same. If anything, that was a blessing in disguise. God threw on his Groucho glasses and showed you the holy light that is right between Karkat Vantas’s legs. 

Said legs-or rather leg-as well as his hands gripping your hair and pressing you right up against him. He cums hard, hard enough to where you’re certain he’s pulled a few strands of hair out. You let him slump down beside you, both of you exhausted. It really doesn’t take anything more than the comfort of your head on his shoulder to get you to fall asleep, dick out. 

In the morning, the sunlight flooding into the mausoleum is what wakes you and you immediately fix your shades. Both of you are still pantsless, it’s gross. When you check your phone you realize that Dirk has been texting you for the last fifteen minutes, a beautiful array of texts spanning from ‘hey’ to ‘where the fuck are you it’s time to go home’. You look at Karkat, he’s still out cold, legs spread. God, you feel like you could fuck him all over again, even though you also feel just about ready to puke until you’re completely empty. You kiss his cheek instead, and shake him awake enough to get his pants on. He seems better off than you, which is a good sign, and when you turn to go neither of you bring up last night. You almost want to ask if you’re still on for your date. You don’t. Instead, you go outside and feel the way the heat licks at you, ready to choke you just like time. Dirk is already in the car, he’s been waiting for who gives a shit how long. 

When the engine starts, you feel nauseous, and it only gets worse the longer you guys drive. You end up puking about a mile from the house, Dirk looks at you like you’re an idiot, You are. You flip him off like you aren’t. Then, all too soon, you’re home. Bro is working in his room or something, you don’t care, all you care about is shoving your headphones on and trying to ride out your hangover. You're gonna puke. You're sure of it. Your stomach is churning and aching and your head hurts and you gag a little bit. 

Suddenly you're on your hands and knees, gagging and heaving, tears pricking your eyes. Jesus Christ, you're really gonna puke all over your floor huh? You fucked your bro last night and now the same tongue you used to comb out his insides will now be covered in whiskey bile. You sit there for a long time, heaving and gagging and on the verge of tears. You don't puke. Instead you sit there, panting, heart pounding in your chest, and you feel something slide down your cheeks. You're crying now, biting down on your knuckle to shut yourself up. Your face feels hot, you're stupid, this is stupid. You're embarrassed to a degree that feels impossible. Your heart is clawing out of your fucking chest and your brain is burning and everything is hot like the sun. You are the sun. You are burning alive in your lukewarm bathtub with your cloudy bubbles and this is hell. You're crying harder, making strangled stupid noises like some broken vacuum or something. Shit. You're gagging again, and somehow you drag yourself to your trashcan and feel the rush and burn of last night's liquor pouring out of you. Your throat hurts, your arms hurt, your legs hurt, your head hurts, everything fucking hurts and you hate yourself. 

You drag yourself to your bed, pulling the covers on top of you and focusing on the buzzing silence. You think about last night, how Karkat felt around you, how good it all was, the sounds he muffled and the way that he looked in the dark. He was so pretty-is so pretty. God, you want to do it again. You want to feel that same sort of uninhibited freedom. You don’t have that right now, instead you’re back in the suffocation, back wallowing in time. Everything is oppressive-too much too much too much. You wonder if now will be the moment where you really let go, but you know you won't. You'll repeat the same over and over again with those brief, sweet reprieves. The world is all too real and all too fake, like a dream. You drag your hand over your face, and on your chin you feel something prick you. 

Whiskers.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi kudos, comments, etc are greatly appreciated and there is a 99% chance that if you comment I'll reply.
> 
> @tamyura_on twt  
> @porcelain_babies on insta


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